August 17th, 2006

snape in lingerie

(no subject)

First, go read this over at lj_biz. Yes, the default is changing to the new one, but you can change it back. Do give the new one a try, though. It's not the most beautiful thing in the world, and it does take some getting used to, but it's not terrible (although I can't highlight text anymore, something I have a bad habit of doing as I read). Plus, how can you not love the names Horizon and Vertigo? *snicker*

Second, I've been feeling sick over the last twelve hours or so. My stomach feels like jelly, and every now and then it decides to rebel against me. I feel like stuff wants to come out both ends at the same time, but nothing comes out. Last night I was force-feeding myself water to keep myself from vomiting. It worked, but just as I thought I had drunk an entire bottle, I looked and discovered I had hardly drunk a fourth of the bottle. Ergh.

So I set my trash can next to my bed and went to bed early. Around six this morning a noise jerked me out of bed.


It didn't stay on for long, though. The alarm ended, and I returned to bed. About a minute later--BEEBEEBEEBEEBEE. This time I got out of bed (knocking over the trash can in the process--luckily I didn't need it, but it was nearly full) and went to the kitchen, expecting flames. Instead, Mum was sitting on the couch, and a pot of water was on the stove. "It's fine," she said. "Go back to bed." I went back to bed but couldn't go back to sleep. College fire drills have conditioned me so well.

This was unusual, though. This was the first time I've heard the fire alarm go off in my house, and I've lived in that house my entire life. It's not quite as uncommon at Grandmother's since her alarm is more sensitive. Seriously, I hear beeps at the slightest sign of smoke. At my house, never. Until this morning.
Also, I haven't been able to keep my mind on one project at a time lately. The fairy tales have been put to the side (sorry, Ryan, but it looks like won't get the mathy proof or your soul) because of the army of literary pirates that invaded my mind over the past few days. This means that I put off my literary autobiography yesterday to work on the link dump in the last entry. Then the army decided to put a bunch of other things in my mind too. All on the last week of holiday.

The last week of holiday? Do I really go back to Agnes in a week? Wow.
writing: still working on that thing

When I was twelve, Mum didn't understand my love of writing.

18 July 1999
from Read and Die, Nbook #7

I wish I knew someone who shared my love for writing, someone who understood the need for time to write. Obviously my mom isn't that person. She's like, "What notebook?" whenever I tell her I need to write my notebook entry. I mean, she should know. She's my mom. Moms know that kind of stuff. Besides, I've been writing in notebooks like this one since last September. September seventh, nineteen ninety-eight, to be exact. That's nearly a whole year. She knows I want to write children's books someday. Besides, all writers keep notebooks in case they come up with a really good idea for a book. Doesn't she know that? I guess she doesn't. She also said that writers don't make much money. I don't think this is true. I mean, I've seen pictures of authors in the book after the story and they don't look like they live in poverty.
This just...amuses me. The family still doesn't completely understand, but at least they accept it more. I found this when I was fact-checking my literary autobiography. It's almost finished; I'm just typing it out now and got sidetracked along the way.

(cross-posted to history_of_me)
writing: within this journal

My Scriptory Autobiography

I've always loved to write, yet, as with most things, I've had my quirks at it. I knew how to read and write before I started kindergarten, which led to much boredom on my part the first year of school. I held (and still hold) my pencil differently than my classmates held theirs. My kindergarten teacher and Granddaddy, among others, tried to correct my grip, but to no avail.

By the time we were writing stories in elementary school, I was known for writing the longest story in the class. When one page was required, I wrote five. My lack of skills as an artist aside, I couldn't be bothered to illustrate my stories most of the time; after all, the mind's eye is the best camera. When illustrations were required, I did the minimum number of illustrations so I could concentrate on the story, while most of my classmates did the opposite. My long-windedness continued, as it had not yet turned to the passion that it is today. Then I entered fifth grade, when I began to reconsider my future plans.

Collapse )